


Tame Racing Driver

by Born In Captivity- Ineligible to Release (Jashasedai)



Series: Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers [1]
Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7615867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jashasedai/pseuds/Born%20In%20Captivity-%20Ineligible%20to%20Release
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jeremy calls The Stig their Tame Racing Driver, there is a lot more to it than jokes for the fans.</p><p>An AU in which a secret species is used as Racing Drivers, and Top Gear has one, but has to deal with all that implies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Tame Racing Drivers AU. Read the series summary.
> 
> If you like this story, please read the counterpart, Choose.

**Recently**

A roaring helicopter shot over the landscape. The doors were open, cold wind buffeting the men inside. Jeremy and Richard had given up on having a shouted conversation over the turbines. They were sitting looking out the port side. Normally Jeremy would have stuck his feet in Richard's lap, saying that as a giant of both size and intellect, he needed the space. But today his feet were planted firmly in front of him. He was sitting there, hanging onto the strap at the top edge of the door. His bicep was bulging. His knuckles white.  
　  
Richard was facing the front, and occasionally glanced up to see what the pilot was doing. He'd wanted to fly this mission himself, but it required more experience than he had, and knowledge of the area.

He looked over at James, who had his hand casually through the strap as a safety precaution, and was waiting patiently for the helicopter to reach its destination. "How's he doing, mate?" he called over the rushing.

James reached his left hand out slowly towards the white figure in the seat in front of him. The white helmet jerked back suddenly as if James' hands were a fearful spectre that had appeared out of nowhere. James gestured a thumbs up and then held his hand open, palm upwards.

The Stig shook its helmet. It tucked its hand under its arms, and then untucked them and cradled its helmet in its hands.

James looked at the others. "It's getting worse."

  
**2002**

When Top Gear had started, James hadn't been on the show and no one had wanted to go with Andy Wilman, the producer, to pick out the first Stig. In the end, Andy and Jeremy had made a decision about what they wanted, and Andy went to pick him out.

Black would look cooler, they decided. It would really make a statement to the fans that this driver was hot stuff, a threat to speed records everywhere. Andy had chosen the first Stig, later differentiated by his unusual colouring, and brought him back to Dunsfold, where he imprinted on their chosen match.

That series had experienced a lot of teething issues. Among the trials and tribulations, and problems they simply hadn't been prepared for, they'd lost the Black Stig.

The next time they had a better idea how to handle it.

Jeremy, Richard, and James, the newest presenter, had all gone with Andy. The building was an enormous warehouse surrounded by prison fencing, razor wire at the top to keep what was outside out, and what was inside in. The cars pulled up at the gate. While Wilman showed the guards their papers, Richard leaned over to Jeremy.

"Look at it all. They keep them all in there?"

Andy turned slightly. "Quiet, Richard. This will just be a supplier. No one knows where they come from."

Jeremy whispered as the guard waved them through, "Someone has to know where they come from or they wouldn't be here, would they?"

James grinned internally at this level of cheekiness, and decided he was going to like being a member of the Top Gear team.  
　  
The black SUV parked and they went in through a man sized door next to a large shipping door. Inside the building it was noisy with high pitched engine noises. "Come on in," a man in a sharkskin jacket said to them. "Don't mind the noise, the boys are just giving 'em some exercise, like. They live for it, you know." He led them past a temporary wall, and into the body of the warehouse. There were 3 levels along the outer walls. Built mostly of cyclone fencing, with plywood floors. They were 10x10x20 cubicles. In the center of the warehouse were 3 go-kart tracks. Go-karts driven by multi-coloured helmeted figures raced around the tracks. Plastered against the wall of nearly every cubicle, entirely focused on the karts, was a straining Racing Driver.

"I figured you might have trouble with that one you bought last time you were here, Mr Gere. Sometimes the monotone ones are a little… unpredictable." He turned to Andy, looked over the 3 presenters. He looked at Jeremy for a long time, then back at Andy. "You and your associates might be happier with a nice bi-tone. Green and yellow are usually easier to handle. Give your racing team a boost, but won't be too likely to… go over the edge."

James took a half step closer to Richard, raising his hand just slightly. Warning him back.  
　  
"We might be amenable to a change-up in colour scheme," Andy started.

Jeremy stepped forward. "What've you got that's fast?"

The supplier looked at him. "Mr Gere tells me your last one lost its match. Racing Drivers have to have a match. Wouldn't do to have a team driver who can't go out in public. Got to have someone to give interviews."

"Yeah, we've got someone." Andy said. "This time I don't want it imprinting on the match, though. You're right, we lost the last one because the guy we found for a match couldn't handle it. This time I want it to imprint on these guys."

The supplier looked unimpressed. "Racing Drivers only imprint once. You can put all three of 'em in there with it and see which one it doesn't kill."  
Richard made a questioning squeak.

The man laughed. "I'm just kidding. They won't know you're there unless you're imprinted on them." He looked at Jeremy. "So, you want fast." He started leading them down the line of cubicles. "Well, the monotones are faster than the bi-tones every time. But they're more intense, less… social."

"Even less human, he means," Richard muttered. Andy and James gave him filthy looks.

"If that's what you want, though, this is it, down here. It's the fastest one we've ever had. A certain racing team who just lost their best driver were very keen to have it, but their match didn't feel up to handling such a big stallion."

"How do you tell if it's a he?" James asked. ″I thought they didn't have gender."

"Oh they've got gender, alright. The females match with female humans. Just not a lot of call for mare Racing Drivers. Here it is, our big stallion."

The cubicle had empty cubicles on every side. In it, as desperately focused on the action on the track as any of the others, was what, under other circumstances, could pass as a man in a white jumpsuit and helmet. Not all that big, either, a bit taller than James, but still average height, slim to skinny.

"Why do you call it a big stallion?" Richard asked. "It's not so big."

"It's our dominant male. We have to keep it away from the other Racing Drivers because they keep challenging it. We can only let it out for exercise alone. It's… savaged any other big monotones we put near it. Would you like the boys to put it through its paces?"

"Please," said Andy. The tracks were emptying now, handlers leading away the more passive bi-tone Racing Drivers whose exercise time had finished. A red and orange one kicked the wheel of its go-kart, waving both arms at it as if the kart had cast aspersions on its mother. A handler gently led it away by the arm. "I see your tracks aren't wide enough for passing. Isn't that a little hard on them? Never getting to really race?"

"They get too competitive if they're allowed to pass. We train them to race their own times. Even then, we have to watch the weaker ones. Racing Drivers don't know when to stop. They'd go until they burst their own hearts if we didn't stop them."

Two handlers opened the door to the white Racing Driver's cubicle and one of them held up a fist. The Racing Driver's attention snapped to the fist. The other handler clipped a lead-stick onto the back of its collar. The first opened his fist and let it see the key. The Racing Driver's reflexes were so fast the grab was barely visible. The Top Gear crew flinched back as it slammed to the end of its lead. The second handler was straining against the lead stick, holding the Racing Driver back from his partner. It reached as far as it could stretch, fingers grasping at the keys a foot out of its reach. The man backed up, the second man half walking, half being dragged as he kept it just out of range of the keys. They came up next to one of the go-karts and the man put the key in the kart and stepped back. The Racing Driver's reach and body followed the key as if magnetized. The second handler unclipped the lead.  
　  
In a blur, the Racing Driver was in the kart, revving the engine and focused on the little signal light beside the starting line.

"Fascinating, isn't it? It doesn't even know the handlers are there, it just sees the keys," the supplier said. James pulled a face, turning away slightly so he wasn't sneering at the man directly.  
　  
The light went green and the kart shot down the track. "It's about a second ahead of our next best time," the supplier told them. "Watch the precision in the cornering. It doesn't adjust any more than absolutely necessary."

"Is a second a lot on a go-kart track?" Richard asked Jeremy.

"How should I know?" the tall man whispered back.

"The spread for the other monotones is within a second. The bi-tones' best times vary anywhere within a 3 second span. On the long track. These tracks all connect when we're doing time trials. A longer track gives a better idea of the difference in ability, since we can't put them on a full sized track. So, yeah. He's the best we've had by a long way." The Racing Driver continued to make circuits of the small track.

"I'd like to confer with my associates," Andy told the supplier. The man nodded and headed off to wait impatiently for their decision.

"What do you think, guys?"

The presenters looked at each other. "It's fast," Jeremy said. "You only have to watch it to see that."

"I think we're not going to get a better opportunity," Richard put in.

"I agree," James said.

Andy nodded. "My thoughts." He went to make the deal. The 3 presenters stood and watched the Racing Driver. The red light signaled it to stop and it sat, tense in the car, watching the red light. The handlers came up and one attached the lead and the other turned the light off and took the keys out of the kart. They led it over to a side area where, once the keys had disappeared from sight, it stood with its arms folded across its chest. With the tracks shut down, the Racing Drivers had stopped focusing on it with laser intensity. Most of them were standing in the same position as the big stallion, though some were drinking from water bottles with straws that went under their helmets, or walking rapidly around the little centre post in their cubicle as though it was a tiny nascar circuit.  
　  
"Which of you is going to imprint on the new Stig?" Jeremy asked in an unsubtle attempt to be casual.

"What?! One of us?" Richard said.

"I'd have thought you'd be the one to do it," James added.

"I don't have the time to imprint on a Racing Driver." Jeremy protested.

"Neither do we."

"I heard if something happens to a Racing Driver, the person imprinted to it will die," Richard said.

James rolled his eyes. "That's not true. It's a myth. Like those stories about them being telepathic."

"That last one went crazy when Perry quit," Jeremy said, the words grinding out over his teeth. "He told it he was never coming back, and told it it would belong to Dawe, and it drove that damn car off a damned aircraft carrier."

"Dawe got weird after that, you have to admit," Richard said.

"Dawe was weird before that." Jeremy brushed a bit of lint off his jacket.

James shook his head. "Well how hard can it be?"

The three of them stood outside the imprint room. It was an actual wooden room, with walls that weren't made of mesh. James had preempted the argument's descent into a coin toss, and just volunteered to be the one who imprinted on the Racing Driver. He looked at the other two. They shifted from foot to foot, but nodded. He stepped into the room where the new Stig waited. Five handlers stood ranged around him.

The man in the sharkskin jacket greeted him. "Mr Singh," the supplier said.

James was momentarily thrown by being addressed by his alias, then nodded.  
　  
"Let me tell you how this'll work. The first human a Racing Driver lays eyes on without that protective glass will be the only one it'll acknowledge. You've seen how they don't pay no mind to the keepers. After this, that'll change for you. It'll see you, and you will be the only one who can control it. You'll have to be there to train it, and it will have to communicate through you. So the boys, they're gonna pull its helmet off, and you don't be shocked by what you see underneath. Just make eye contact. You look at it until it looks away, you got it?"

"Well, I..."

"That's all there is to it. Go."

Four of the five men grabbed the Racing Driver while the fifth reached for its helmet. It didn't react beyond a slight tensing until the hands touched its helmet, then it started thrashing. It tried to raise its arms and it took all four men to hold them down. It whipped its head to and fro, trying to get free of the grip that was pulling the helmet inexorably up and off. Finally, the handler pulled it free. The wrestling had resulted in the Racing Driver pulled to its knees on the floor. It stopped struggling to reach its helmet when it saw James.

It looked up at him with a young man's face. A human face, with blue eyes and sandy hair. There was no expression other than strain. It was breathing heavily. He looked into its eyes. How could they deny the humanity of these creatures? He stared until the new Stig dropped its, his - James would never think of him as IT again - dropped his eyes to the floor and made a noise that sounded more mechanical than organic. The helmet was crammed back on his head, and James snapped back to himself.

He stepped forward, and stared down the handlers who were releasing their holds, and helped Stig to his feet.

He knew more about Racing Drivers than most people ever would, but only because most people never knew they existed at all. When it came down to the details, most of what he knew was rumor. The only solid fact was that they were a separate, human-like species that lived to race. It wasn't so weird, he told himself.  
　  
It was weird, though, the way the Stig just sat in the box and laid down while the handlers nailed it shut. How, when they opened the box at Dunsfold, he just sat up and got out with no indication of discomfort or acknowledgment.

They had a medic who was experienced in treating Racing Drivers brought in. He introduced himself as Giancarlo, asked James to call him Johnny, and told James to bring the Stig into the hanger where he would be staying. James stared at the man.

"How?"

Johnny sighed. "You just tell him to follow you. They're really very intelligent. It's just a different intelligence from ours."

"Come on, then," James said to him. The Stig turned his helmet to face James, but didn't move.

"Try hand gestures. Most of the untrained ones know those, at least."

James waved in a 'come here' gesture. The Stig stepped forward, right into his space. James backed up a step, holding his hands up to stop the Stig from following. He made a thumbs up. Stepped back again with a less lively come here wave. Stig followed, as though he was on a lead.

"You're a natural. Communicating with him comes easily to you."

"It's all the practice communicating with those two pillocks," he muttered.  
　  
There was a walled off area of one of the hangers near the studio. It was equipped with no furniture at this point. Just laminate walls, flooring and sub-ceiling, and a row of cupboards along one side. There was a window, though, that looked out onto the track.

The medic wanted to do an examination; he instructed James to get the Stig's jumpsuit and helmet off. James thought for a moment, then tapped the Stig. "Stig," he said. He tapped himself. "James." He was half expecting a 'me Tarzan' moment, but the Stig just nodded. James mimed taking an imaginary helmet off. The Stig tensed. "It's alright, Stig. We're not going to hurt you." He smiled, trying to put off friendly vibes. Stig's hands reached up and slowly pulled his helmet off. He tucked it under his arm.

James' smile widened. "Good!" He gave a thumbs up. Then he mimed taking the jumpsuit off.

Stig took a step back, shaking his head. His very human eyes didn't show fear, but they did show tension.

James glanced at the medic for help.

"You're doing fine," Johnny told him. "Show him you mean it. Ask him again, but keep it upbeat. They respond better to the carrot than the stick."

James mimed again. The Stig strode forward and got right in his face. It didn't seem like an innocent misunderstanding like the first time, it seemed threatening. He looked down at James with narrowed eyes. James couldn't bring himself to stare back.

"Nope," Johnny said. "Look past him. Don't let him challenge you. You're in charge here, not him. Step away slowly, and we'll leave the room." He opened the door. James swallowed and focused on the window beyond the Stig. He felt the ice blue eyes on him, but he stepped backwards out of the room with Johnny. Johnny blew out a breath. "I haven't seen one that aggressive in a long time. Usually they don't go after their partners like that. You did a good job. We'll just stay out here for a bit. He needs to learn you won't give him the satisfaction of competing against him."

"What was he doing? Would he have hurt me?"

"He must be used to fighting pretty hard to stay in charge. Racing Drivers compete by racing, but they'll compete in pretty much anything. Chicken is a favorite. That's what he was doing to you, trying to make you stare him down."

"But I looked away, doesn't that mean he won?"

"No, you didn't acknowledge his challenge. You didn't make eye contact. That was exactly right."

James shuddered. He only hadn't made eye contact because it made him uncomfortable to do so. He had a lot to learn.

"Alright, let's go back in. If he comes after you like that, again, make sure not to acknowledge him."

"Would he have hurt me?" James realized Johnny hadn't answered that question the first time.

"No. But he'd have thought he was in charge, and you'd have had to work hard to come back from that."

They stepped back in. The Stig was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, staring out the window. His helmet was back on. He turned when James came in.

James gestured again for him to remove his helmet and jumpsuit. "We have to get you checked out before we can let you out on the track."

Stig's helmet lifted just a bit. He turned slightly back towards the window where the track was visible. He looked back at James and removed his helmet and started to strip off his jumpsuit. He had a grubby undershirt on, and he stopped with his suit around his waist to peel this off. The term peel was incredibly apt. It stuck and when he dropped it on the floor beside him, it landed with a thunk, and didn't flatten to the ground.

There was a distinct odour. It was strong.

Johnny's face was drawn into an angry frown.

James jaw had dropped. The body underneath, still appearing human, was pale, bony, emaciated and bruised.

There were dozens of linear bruises crisscrossing his chest, belly and arms in obvious cyclone fencing patterns. A picture came into James' mind of the Racing Drivers straining against the fencing of their cubicles. The image of what would happen if a strong man was throwing himself against a wire cage repeatedly. "Bloody Nora."

The Stig didn't stop at his waist. Once his undershirt was off, he bent down and unstrapped his boots revealing bare feet, then stripped out of his trousers to a pair of boxer briefs that hadn't originally been grey.

His legs weren't as bad off as his torso, though his knees were bruised and there were more crisscrosses on his thighs.

Johnny was red faced with rage, but keeping his voice level, he said. "These places shouldn't be allowed to do this. He's in bad shape. First thing is to check him for… further injuries. He won't let me touch him, so you'll have to do it."

"Shouldn't first thing be to clean him off?" James asked, tightly.

"Ideally, but if there's anything untreated I want to find out what it is now. We'll start by checking his heart and lungs. You hold the stethoscope and I'll listen." He handed James the round end of the stethoscope and pointed to where to place it on the Stig's chest. "A little higher. There."

James was curious what it sounded like. He was about to ask, when Johnny directed him to move the scope to another point, then two different spots on Stig's back, having him tell Stig to breath deeply. James accomplished this by breathing deeply himself and making a sweeping motion like his lungs expanding with his free hand.

"Now, eventually you'll be able to do this basic stuff on your own. Not really medical stuff, just Racing Driver first aid." He wiped off the ear-pods and handed the stethoscope to James, having him repeat the pattern of points and listening to the results. The heartbeat was fast, a continuous patter patter. "Count the beats, there should be between 180 and 230 per minute. It'll be easier if you count in segments of 15 seconds and do the maths."

James counted, multiplied the answer by 4. He tried again. The stethoscope was extremely sensitive. The beats were plain. He tried again. "I'm only getting 140."

"That's what I got, too. He's in pretty bad shape. They have a broader metabolic range than humans. It's low, but within tolerance." Johnny pointed at the places on Stig's back where James would listen to his lungs. "Any sort of wheezing or rattling or any difference between the lungs is something to call me about." James listened. He couldn't really determine anything, but memorized the sound of normal Stig breathing. All the while the Racing Driver just stood there, just watching James out of the corner of his eye.

"It's alright, Stig." James smiled. "You're doing a good job." He gave him a thumbs up.

"I'm going to have a look at his bruises. They look pretty typical for a Racing Driver that's just come out of a holding facility. Those places are never adequate. Too many Racing Drivers, not enough space, never enough track time, and never adequate tracks. Their survival ratings are like 70%." Johnny growled, leaning close to look over Stig's torso. "The ones that don't make it are almost always the weaker bi-tones. Those ones don't bring in as much of a profit, so what does it matter to the suppliers if they lose some of the stock? Don't even get me started on the poly-tones. They practically produce them in mills in the colonies."

He straightened up. Sighed. Got a hold of himself. "This one will be ok, though. We'd better get him cleaned up. Bring him through this way." Andy had arranged a sort of lavatory. It was like the ones on ships, or in caravans, where the whole lavatory worked as a shower. Except this one had more room. It was still a very tight squeeze for two full sized people. James stopped outside so Johnny could step in first. The medic shook his head. "He won't let me touch him, remember. We'll leave the door open and I'll stay right here."

James took off his shoes and stepped into the water closet.

"You may want to get him to leave the shorts out here," Johnny said.

James blushed. He mimed taking shorts off.

The apparently human male reached down and pushed his pants down off his hips. They dropped to the floor. James studied the ceiling. Waved the Stig forward into the water closet. James tried to remind himself, despite the very immediate evidence, that he was not about to be in extremely close quarters with another man who was showering. At least in school the other boys hadn't been crammed two to a stall.  
　  
"What, precisely is the difference in Racing Drivers and Humans? His heart beats faster, and I know they have reflexes that are off the charts, but strictly speaking, what makes them inhuman?"

Johnny reached in and turned on the water. It was cold. It made James gasp. The Stig just turned his face up into it. "Biologically? Not much. Psychologically, just about everything. Biologically the difference is like dogs and wolves. There's a few tweaks here and there that make them superior specimens." The built up filth of captivity was running off Stig in little rivers. "Psychologically, though, it's like humans and wolves. They are intelligent, they have a social structure, they communicate with each other. Between the species there can be understanding, to a point, and communication, to a point. But wolves can't engineer an industrial revolution. That's the difference." He waved towards the washrag and bottles of soap in the shower basket. "Teach him what to do. Those farms never bother with training for anything other than the work. Socialization is left up to the end buyer."

James took a rag and squeezed soap onto it, foaming it up and then handed it to Stig, who emulated him. The rag had a lot of soap on it, now, but that was all the better for the work it had to do. James mimed washing. The water was freezing, aside from shoes he was fully dressed, and he was standing pressed as far against the wall as he could be with, essentially, a naked man staring at him and showering. He wasn't really getting the hang of the washrag, either.

"Help him out, James, it's a foreign concept." Johnny was getting all the spray from the shower head, and he was wearing those rubber krocs like chefs wore, standing in a puddle of runoff, leaning against the water closet door. "Don't be afraid to talk to him. He'll learn more if you do. I know you're the man for words, James."

"Alright." James took a breath. "The purpose here is to get clean. See that grey stuff? It's old skin and sweat and it's full of bacteria." He took the rag from the Stig's hand and started washing his left shoulder. "The rag wipes the dirt off. Like...windscreen wipers. The soap kills any bad bacteria that are left. Gets rid of bad smells, too." He washed down Stig's arm and back up the underside, then across his chest, chattering away about how not all the bacteria were bad, and how soap came in different smells. Not used to talking into silence in everyday life, he fell into reviewing mode. He started reviewing his experience being partnered with the Stig, told the Stig how he felt they were each doing in their performance of the new task. He made sure to be full of glowing praise for Stig, because he felt like encouragement was a good place to be.  
　  
He got to Stig's waist and handed him the rag back. "That half is up to you, mate."

Stig nodded and carried on where James had left off. James went back to studying the ceiling, giving occasional pointers, like to clean between his toes. Then James took a handful of the Rid-X shampoo and washed the Racing Driver's close cropped hair. He taught him to wash behind his ears. He endured the uncomfortable bright blue stare inches from his face. When he was done washing everything, James showed him how to rinse. How to check for soap residue. They got out and James showed him how to towel off, using an extra towel to wring some of the water out of his own clothes.

In the larger room, he opened a cupboard and showed Stig a clean spare jumpsuit and boots. He explained about the laundry service, and showed him to put his dirty jumpsuit in the hamper inside one of the cupboards. The Stig watched him carefully, but James could see his attention was drawn to the window.

Johnny went with them outside. "You're doing a great job. Just keep up this level of training and he'll be a peach to deal with in no time. My work is done here, today. I'll talk to Mr Wilman about his dietary requirements and exercise routine. Here's my card, you call me anytime you have a question. It's been a real pleasure to meet you, James."

The track was set up with the kinds of neon flags they'd used to train the Racing Drivers at the holding facility. There was no need to teach a Racing Driver a track. After going around once, they'd know the ins and outs better than any human driver. The reasonably priced car was sitting at the starting line. The Stig was over to it like a shot, standing next to it with arms crossed. When James tapped the key fob in his pocket to unlock the door, the Stig jumped inside and looked out through the windscreen for the signal light. The crew had discovered with the last Stig that it was more reliable to signal him from the sidelines, so James counted down from three with big gestures, then pointed at the Stig. The car squealed to life.

James watched as the Stig blew away all the records. Lap after lap he hammered in clean, tight lap times. James felt himself smiling in delight.  
Eventually he motioned for the Stig to stop, took him back and settled him in his room. As he walked away, still feeling the buzz of excitement, James' eyes nearly teared up with the deep, fulfilling sense of joy, of finally having gotten to really drive, for the first time in his life.

Wait...what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Racing Drivers CAN read minds, and talk back.
> 
> This changes some things.


	2. Chapter 2

**Recently**

The helicopter changed direction, turning slightly, making it easier to look out the side straight down at the snowscape racing by below. Jeremy felt a tightening below the belt and a voice in the back of his head screamed that he was going to fall out. He was too badass to feel scared of falling out of a helicopter, he told himself. Like a paratrooper, he would sit and wait and when they landed he would leap out, to the extent that his knees and hip would let him, and stride away as if he'd been in no way affected by the journey.

"T-Minus Ten," the chopper pilot called back, and Jeremy turned to look over his inside shoulder, through the cabin windscreen to see their destination. All that was currently visible was a ridge of white hills rising out of the ice plain in ahead of them.

Richard was leaning out the side, the wind in his face, tensed for action. He was always tensed for action way too soon. He was wound like a sodding jackrabbit most of the time. The wait would start fraying the edges of his nerves, and he'd go back to talking, soon. Jeremy would have to think of something to distract him before that.

James wouldn't be any help; he was leaning in close to the Racing Driver, making those gestures they always used to communicate. His face was lined with worry. Jeremy hurt for him: it would be hard on him if he lost the Stig.

Didn't Jeremy just know.

**1988**

Jeremy sat by himself in the car in the pub parking lot. He wanted badly to have a drink, but wasn't sure it wouldn't make the problem worse. He was losing his mind. That had to be it, some sort of madness that struck 30 year old men for no apparent reason, out of the blue. Drinking would probably just make him hear more voices. That was the last thing he wanted. Though drinking until he forgot what was happening had seemed like a good plan on the way over here from the test track.

He'd been reviewing cars for Top Gear for a while, now. He was certainly one of the best presenters on the show. He was now privy to secrets. The car world had depths that few people would ever fathom existed, let alone be party to. The Racing Drivers, for instance. A whole separate species of human look-alikes that existed purely to race. He'd have thought they were putting him on when they first told him about it, except for the tremendous amount of paperwork he'd had to sign to be allowed to be told.

Then he'd gone into a room in the studio, and watched several men wrestle another to the ground, having an unnaturally difficult time of it, and pry the blue racing helmet off his head. He'd stared down a boy who did look remarkably like him, becoming uncomfortably aware that the creature looking back at him wasn't human. It wasn't the impossibly perfect imitation of baritone engine noise that was spilling out of its mouth. It wasn't the way it'd lifted the men trying to hold it, until they worked together and forced it to the floor. It was the way the grey eyes focused, untwitching on him, where any human would have been giving more consideration to their continued struggle with the men on the ground. The Racing Driver kept fighting to stand, even as its gaze bore into Jeremy. When it finally looked down, he felt like a tow rope had snapped. He felt cut loose.

He hadn't been much involved in training it. It had mostly been lured about via dangling keys in front of it, signal lights beside the track, and a liberal application of physical force. It was just there to drive when he wasn't available, to get shots and generally serve as his body double.

Until the day of the Porsche.

  
Jeremy had been on the track at the same time it'd been there, and he felt uncomfortable with how it kept staring at him. "You're the only one it knows is here," one of the regular handlers had said. "They're too stupid to realize that people are anything but scenery. Except their matches, apparently."

The people from Porsche offloaded the beautiful new Porsche 928 from the truck. Jeremy could see the shiver of excitement run through Blue. The handlers were pretty unoriginal with names. The Racing Driver kept casting glances at him, but remained glued to the spot the handlers had left it. Jeremy felt pretty excited about the car, and wasn't paying much attention. He would be doing his test first, and then Blue and the camera crew would clean up any leftover shots.

He went through a thorough test, but kept spotting Blue on the side of the track, standing with crossed arms, racing helmet tracking him as closely as any of the cameras. It was unnerving him. He finished as quickly as he could, and then parked beside the crew, hopped out of the car, and tossed the keys to the Racing Driver. "Fine, you're so eager to have a go, get on with it."

The Racing Driver caught the keys with unerring reflexes, but its helmet was tracking Jeremy's stalk across the sideline.

A wave of sadness so intense he nearly fell to his knees washed over him. He stumbled and looked back. He suddenly imagined standing on the sidelines, watching Blue race, how proud he'd be, and how much better Blue would do with Jeremy watching.

Blue was staring at him, of course he was, and he cocked his helmet to the side. Jeremy found himself wondering why he didn't want to watch the most important thing Blue would ever do. Drive for him.

Every one of the emotions was foreign. Not that Jeremy wasn't familiar with feeling sadness, and pride, and wonder. But these feelings hadn't originated in anything Jeremy had been thinking or feeling before. They were things that had never crossed his mind. He'd never thought it would be important to Blue that he watch. Or that Blue ever thought anything of him, except a way to translate what the handlers or the medic said.

The handler, annoyed at the lag in the usually attentive Racing Driver, started pushing Blue towards the Porsche.

Jeremy felt a swell of annoyance, and this time it had certainly originated in his mind. "Oi, you don't have to be rough with him. It's not his fault," he called to the handler. "Go drive, Blue." 'I'll stay and watch,' he finished in his head.

The Racing Driver turned and strode to the car. Jeremy stood on the edge of the track, his head spinning with the undeniable realization that he could feel the g-force of every turn Blue took as though he was in the car with him, the thrill of the speed, and the love he felt towards the car.

"He is really on form today. I have never seen him this tight," the handler said. "They say all the big F1 matches watch their Racing Drivers race. I can see why. The difference with you here."

He had watched the driving, but left before they started manhandling Blue back to where ever it was they kept him when he wasn't on the track. Then he'd gone straight to the pub.

Drinking was a bad idea, he decided. If he really was hearing his Racing Driver's thoughts in his head, he needed to work out what to do about it.

He snuck back to the studio, and inside. Then he realized he had no idea where they kept the Racing Driver. They were pretty low maintenance, apparently, and he didn't need any furniture, just a cupboard to stand in, and a room to pace in for exercise. He searched until he started feeling unaccountably happy, then started opening nearby doors at random.

Blue was inside a small, empty room, just larger than a janitor's closet, standing inside a cupboard with his arms crossed. Upon opening the doors, Jeremy was thrilled by the fact he was standing there, and Blue wasn't alone. Yes, that thought definitely hadn't come from him.

"Are you talking in my head?" he asked.

He was certain Blue was.

"That, just now, was that you?"

Of course it had been Blue, what else could it have been? he asked himself.  
"How long have you been able to do that?!"

It must be the way Racing Drivers communicated with each other, he thought, then immediately wondered if he was going to take Blue back to the track for more driving.

"No, not right now. Do all Racing Drivers talk to their matches?" Then he remembered that Blue hadn't ever seen another Racing Driver who had a match; the ones at the holding facility just disappeared from time to time.

Jeremy hadn't known anything about where Blue had come from before the day he'd imprinted on him. Now his head was full of pictures.

A long, low corridor full of what looked like dog kennels, the block walls painted white, and fencing keeping the Racing Drivers from contact with their neighbors.

His own blue gloves gripping the cyclone fencing of the door of his cage as Racing Drivers, as distinct in height and build as in their multicoloured jumpsuits, were led down the corridor. Tall, short, broad shouldered, skinny as a rail, Green, Pink, Red, Yellow, Blue. They walked, heads down, or struggled against the lead stick, or braced their feet every step of the way, dragged by half a dozen men. Their voices raised in a whole symphony of engine rumbles.

There was a Red suited Racing Driver in the cage across the way, watching each of these processions, gloves gripping the wire mesh, pressed as firmly against the door as he knew himself to be. A tenor rumble came from it as they watched their fellows being dragged away. His own baritone rumble rising each time one passed.

Then he experienced another series of flashes.

He stood at the back of his cage with his arms crossed for meaningless, hopeless hours. When the energy and need was too much to bear, he slumped with the hunger of it down along the wall. Then the door at the end of the hall opened, and the Racing Drivers stirred, but Jeremy was too keyed up to move. If he moved he would throw himself against the door, raging and roaring for freedom, batter himself to death against it, as he'd seen others do.

The door to the Red's cage opened. It was likewise slumped against the back wall of its cage. It raised its helmet, pressed itself deeper against the back wall and shrieked like an engine pushed past the redline. Every Racing Driver was suddenly up and slammed against the door of their cage, their voices almost matching the fervor of the Red. Jeremy's hands hurt, he was gripping the uneven wire so hard, rattling the door so ferociously, that it was cutting through his gloves into the flesh beneath.

The Red leapt to its feet unexpectedly. It fought its way out into the hallway. It cast glances left and right. It sprinted for the open door. One of the men tripped it so it came crashing down, face first. It fought to its feet. Jeremy saw it had hit the ground hard enough to crack its faceplate. It struggled out of the grasp of the men and had nearly reached the end of the hallway when the door was slammed shut from the other side. It barreled into the sudden obstacle, but spun and faced the pursuit.

Some of the Racing Drivers in the adjacent cages were screaming into the redline, too, now. The voice of one of the Yellows nearest the door cut out in a painful splutter. It dropped out of sight behind the waist high partition of its cage.

Racing Drivers weren't fighters. They didn't even fight the handlers who came to take them away, though they might struggle to resist being taken. They might engage in body contact on the raceway, and they would compete without concern for their own health, and they would certainly gesture obscenely at one another, or even scuffle good naturedly, but they didn't set out to hurt one another.

And that's why the Racing Drivers went silent when the Red shrieked again and leapt at the men. It smashed its cracked helmet into the nearest unprotected face twice before the man had time to fall. The men were completely unprepared for resistance on this level, and stood in shocked stillness. Their reflexes weren't fast enough to match a Racing Driver, anyway. The Red struck out at another with its hand. It grabbed a third and pulled him forward, headbutting him in the face as well.

The man who'd been struck only with the gloved hand pulled an object from his belt, and jammed it against the Red's chest. All the Racing Drivers cowered back to the walls of their cages sensing the sheer amount of electricity that was being discharged into the already falling body, burning out super sensitive bioelectric systems necessary for survival.

The fourth man knocked twice on the door. It was opened. Two men came in through it and the fourth handler gestured at what had been the Red. They picked the body up by its arms and dragged it away. Then they came back in and opened the cage that had been occupied by the Yellow Racing Driver that had burnt itself out, and hauled its body away, too.

The fourth man raised his hand and pointed, and the handlers came for Jeremy. He was too horrified to resist.  
　  
Suddenly back in the studio, Jeremy gasped for breath. He staggered back from the Blue Racing Driver, doubled over, holding his ribs, sucking huge lungfuls of air.

What was wrong with him?! Blue hadn't meant to hurt him. He felt the thought pushed into his head.

"No," he screamed at Blue. "Stop it." He thrust his hand out to ward off his attempts to get closer. "Just, just let me think for myself for a moment." He braced himself against the wall with his right hand, still keeping Blue at bay with his left. This was really happening. He'd just seen memories that had come from another being in his own head. That was hard enough to grasp, but the content. The way they'd been treated. Jeremy still felt the pent up energy, the ennui, the rage and the fear. He rocked himself back and forth a bit, trying to calm his racing heart. He swallowed three times. He stood up straight. He tried to get his thoughts in line.

"You're all telepathic. All Racing Drivers. And you came from this place, the cages in the hallway?"

Yes.

"Why do you put up with it?"

An image of the Red's body, arched backwards, twitching, came back to him.

"Right. Where were you before that?"

Different corridor, bigger cages, several Racing Drivers per cage, running in circles after one another.

Jeremy thought something was odd about the picture. The proportions of the Racing Drivers. "Are those children?"

Small Racing Drivers, in many colors, playing tag and chase, voices sounding more like lawn mower engines than car engines. A full sized Racing Driver, in a grey jumpsuit, holding its arms around him.

Jeremy hadn't expected to be surprised any more, but the Racing Driver in the memory holding Blue was a woman. "Was that your mother?"

He could see the reflection of his own helmet in its faceplate, looking small and thin in the dark reflection. The female wiped the thumb of its glove across his faceplate, wiping away a smudge. He felt love, felt its love coming back to him.

It picked him up when he fell.

It let him win in races against it.

It taught him how to feel the apex of a corner.

It held onto the wire mesh and keened when he and the others were taken away.

Jeremy's hand was on his mouth. He and his wife had just started talking about having children. He pictured a child that looked like the school pictures he had of himself, being pulled out of his wife's arms and made to live in a dog kennel.

Blue didn't seem terribly upset about it. He felt a wistful sense of sadness, but no outrage.

"Why aren't you more horrified? Why don't your people revolt?"

He got another picture of the Red.

"I mean… Don't you want something better?"

The Porsche turned into a corner, and he pushed down the accelerator, and the whole thing flew forward, tapped the apex and swung out onto the straight.

Jeremy wondered what could be better than that.

"Can you see what I remember?"

It would work both ways.

Jeremy closed his eyes and formed a picture of his own childhood. Running in the grass across the whole length of a park. Riding bikes with the wind in his face. Laughing with his friends. A bedroom to himself. A mother who he'd never been taken away from. A father who taught him how to be a man. Being sent out of the house in the morning and not being expected back until supper.

Then he imagined his life now. A home of his own. A beautiful wife. Travel. A job he loved.

He couldn't encapsulate some of the things he wanted Blue to know about, though. The freedom to do what he chose and go where he chose. The right to be acknowledged as a human being. Knowing he was never going to be dragged off into the unknown. Never being afraid that he was going to be killed for being desperate.

He began to form a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Racing Driver thing has been going on for a long time for Jeremy.
> 
> Do you think that Red Driver was anyone important to Blue?


	3. Chapter 3

**Recently**

The icy hills were immediately before them now. The helicopter was rising to clear them. Richard called to James and pointed to the ground, gave a thumbs up. James gestured back to him, but the frown hadn't left his face. The Stig was sitting there with his hands on his knees. James's hands had to be really close for him to see them, now, and the Racing Driver had been unresponsive to sound for days. His world was silent, and getting darker by the hour.

Richard could see worry lines on James' forehead. This had to work. He couldn't stand going through what James was going through.

The helicopter broke over the ridge and he shouted. Jeremy spun round to look through the cockpit, and James, slowly turning his attention from the Stig, looked out the starboard door.

A flat, as long as a large city, ringed with steep, icy hills stretched out before the helicopter. The ground was made of some sort of stone, covered in curvy markings. Around the edges, built against the deep, imposing cliff faces were multilevel buildings, like the ones he'd seen when he'd visited the American Southwest. Cliff dwellings. In the taller ones, he counted 15 levels of windows. All around these, figures wearing fabulously colored clothing stopped and pointed at the helicopters.

The floor of the sheltered valley was the incredible part, though. The curvy lines were painted or chalked onto the stone in sets of bright patterns. Along these lines, with a noise audible over the sound of the chopper, zipped brightly colored… things… were they machines? They didn't look like cars, as Richard knew them. They moved in a steady stream along the unbelievably complex path of lines. His eye couldn't even follow all the turns, backswitches and hairpins to determine if it was one immense racetrack, or hundreds of racetracks that were just huge.

"Bloody Nora," James breathed.

"I can't wait to drive on THAT!" yelled Jeremy.

James tapped the Stig and pointed. The Stig turned, but his vision ended only inches from his visor. He couldn't even hear the roar of engines from below. James' face fell. He patted Stig on the knee and gave him a huge smile and a thumbs up. Then he sat back out of Stig's line of sight, a look of desperate determination on his face.

Richard watched the landscape skim by beneath them. Grimly.

**2009**

"Just because Stig talks to you, doesn't mean mine will talk to me." Richard yawned. "We've never had proof of others talking to their matches. There's no reason to expect this one will." He flicked a wad of napkin across the room where it landed in Jeremy's hair and stuck. Jeremy didn't react. Richard took a drink of his beer.

Having to change Stigs, because of Ben's identity being compromised, had been a whole, huge dramatic event. They couldn't, Andy insisted, keep the same Stig around on camera. It would be too obviously the same person.

So they'd gone on another uncomfortable trip to a skeevy holding facility. Different skeevy holding facility, same skeevy supplier. This time, since James was already imprinted on Old Stig, and Jeremy refused to be considered an option, Richard had been left with the short straw. Again.

Admittedly he'd found himself more invested than he'd thought he would be. He had wanted to punch the handlers silly when they tore his Stig's helmet off. He'd used the rage to hold himself still during the interminable wait until the other gaze dropped. He'd bodily pushed them away and pulled Stiggy to freedom.

Most Racing Drivers were imprinted on matches who looked like them, shared the same build, and for the most part, similar facial appearance. On Top Gear, since the Stigs were supposed to be obviously NOT any of the presenters, they imprinted on one person and matched to another. Which meant James and Richard shared the ability to communicate with their Stigs, and Ben and the new guy (who would be picked based on a resemblance to the new Stig) were decoys, and provided, via voice transmitters in the Stig's helmets, the driving instructions for the stars. Stiggy, as Richard had decided to call him, to make the distinction clear in his own mind, looked more like him than Stig looked like James. He was taller than Richard, but he had brown eyes, and maple syrup colored hair. Which was horribly matted and dirty.

This facility was nowhere near as… nice as the one where they'd rescued the first Stig. It was smaller, more like an animal shelter. The hallways full of cages the size of dog runs convinced Hammond it had to have been converted from one. There wasn't a kart track on site, but the supplier, who looked like he hadn't washed his hair since the last time they'd seen him, told them they had exercise facilities available, and that they shipped the Racing Drivers out for time trials.

The visit had been shorter this time. It was just Richard and Andy. The deal had been pretty well ironed out in advance. Since the last time they'd come, Andy had brokered the deals with the guy for Stigs for both Australian and American Top Gear, so everyone knew what was expected of them.

Richard had actually listened closely to James' advice about training Stiggy. He'd been working with him for weeks now, soon they'd work well enough together that Johnny would consider letting them move Stiggy permanently to Dunsfold, confident that they would be able to handle two stallions in the same space. He'd never heard him say a thing, though. He was beginning to doubt James' word that the Stig was, in fact telepathic. That all Racing Drivers were. That they just didn't always choose to talk to their matches.  
　  
"Well maybe that's the problem. You and Stig aren't really matches in the way most Racing Drivers are. Stiggy's tall, but he looks more like me." Richard leaned back on James' couch and waved a hand in the air. "Maybe that makes him less communicative." He was beginning to reach that really warm stage of drunkeness where he himself would become much more communicative.  
　  
James was sitting in his chair with his beer in his lap, wearing what Americans called a shit-eating-grin. "No, no I don't think so." He slurred a little. "He says they can all do it. He's very clear."

"I'm just not sure." Richard took another drink of his beer. "It's not like we've got anything other than your word to go on. Right, Jeremy?" Jeremy was slumped face down on the table. He'd started quite a bit earlier than the other two. Richard wadded up the rest of the napkin and threw it at him. This time he twitched, dislodging a dozen or so of the tiny white napkin balls Richard had spent a quarter hour flicking at him. Three resolutely clung on.

"Mine was a dead ringer for me, and he never shut up," Jeremy muttered against the tabletop.

The others were suddenly much more sober.

The only sound was the ticking clock.

"Jezza," said James, slowly, in his 'talking to idiots' voice. "Who was a dead ringer for you?

"Blue, m' Racing Driver. From old Top Gear." He turned his head so his face was on the other side. One of the napkin balls lost its grip and fell to the tabletop. "Looked just like me. Talked all the time. In m' head." Jeremy was drunk enough he'd started reverting to his Yorkshire accent.

James and Richard exchanged glances.

"Why haven't you ever said anything?!" Richard yelled.

"Can't talk about it. He's gone."

James stood up. "I'll make him some coffee. Keep him talking." He walked past Jeremy into the kitchen and Jeremy sat up. Most of the little napkin balls that had fallen out of his hair were now stuck humorously to his face. He stretched his arms and ran a hand through the thinning grey curls, dislodging the last of the ones in his hair.

"You imprinted on a Racing Driver? For old Top Gear? And his name was Blue, and he talked to you in your head?" Richard asked.

"I said that, didn't I? It wasn't really talking, though. It was like, he sent me what he was feeling. Like I'd think it was me thinking it, but I knew I wasn't, you know?"

Richard had gone a little pale. "Yeah, maybe."

"He told me about where he'd come from. What life was like for Racing Drivers at the holding facilities. Told me about the cars for the reviews. He was supposed to be my body double, for the extra shots and stuff."

James came back with coffee. "Drink this, Jezza." He directed Jeremy to sit on the couch and sat back down on his chair. "I think I remember something like that. Body doubles for the presenters on old Top Gear. The show got cancelled before I ever needed one. I never noticed there was anything different about them, though. Certainly not like the Stig."

"This was back in the 80's. They didn't let them wear their jumpsuits and helmets on the track. They dressed them up to look like us. Must've been expensive as hell."

"This talking in your head they do, it's not like words, then, just thoughts?" Richard asked.

"Blue always made me feel what he felt while he was out on the track."

"Yeah, like you're right there with them," James said.

"Memories, too. Things he'd seen and done. Cars he drove when I wasn't there. Most of the stuff he remembered was the inside of his cage at the holding factory."

"Yeah, Stig's shown me some of his memories. Mostly, it's emotions, though."

"Like you feel happy that you're taking him out to drive? Or you feel worried that you'll feel disappointed when he doesn't make a turn just right? But you don't have any reason to feel that way, up until you're feeling that way?" Richard asked.

"Yeah, exactly," James said, nodding to himself. Then he looked sharply at Richard.

"You said he talked in your head! I thought that meant voices. Not thinking about things from his point of view, that's just empathy." Richard threw his hands up.

"How long has this been going on?" James' eyebrows were comically high, Richard thought.

"Since the first time I saw him face to face. I got so mad that those handlers were holding him down."

"Blue could see everyone. The experts say they can't, but they can. They just can't communicate with them. I know, cause I can still remember that kid. He knew, that's why he did it." Jeremy's knuckles were white around the coffee cup. "The handlers say he lost control. I couldn't tell them why I knew he didn't. It'd never happened, otherwise."

Richard and James sensed the tone in his voice. They looked at each other. James spoke. "You've never gotten to talk about what happened, so you don't talk about him?"

"You can tell us. We'll believe you," Richard said, quietly.

Jeremy looked at the wall. "It was a Porsche Carrera RS. We were road testing it. He and the crew were doing long shots. The road curved out of sight of the cameras, and then swung back into view a couple times. You splice the shots to make it look faster, so the car is in the background, middleground and foreground all in a couple seconds, you know the kind."

They nodded.

Jeremy took a breath and continued. "I was standing by the coffee table pouring those awful packets of sugar into my coffee, when all of a sudden, I wasn't there anymore. I was out on the road. He was in one of the bushy patches, out of sight of the camera. He'd just come around the corner and there was this kid, 13, 14, on a bike crossing the road." He closed his eyes. "It seemed like everything was in slow motion, you know how fast they think. I was right there with him, and I could see every choice he could make, just like he could. Every line of possibility, every trajectory the car could travel. I could see the kid, right there in the apex of the corner, and I could feel him testing options. He was so glad he was in just that car, at just that moment, because most of them wouldn't do what he was going to ask it to do. Then all I could see was the one choice, like none of the others had ever been there." Jeremy stopped talking and closed his eyes.

It was several moments before he opened his eyes and started speaking again.

"He didn't come back into the shot, and the whole crew heard that bang. There was no sign of the kid, he must've taken off. They were all so sure he lost control in the corner. All I could do was point out the bike tracks going across the road."

Jeremy's teeth ground.

"The handler said he must've panicked, to turn the wheel the wrong way and gun the engine like he did. Told me in any other car, the response wouldn't have taken him off into the tree like that. He'd have just gone straight through the corner and landed in the field on the other side."

His fists clenched and he held them to his mouth, muffling his voice.

"I fucking hate Porsches."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Richard is the guy who flicks wads of napkin at people. He has good relationships with pets, do you think that enhanced or hindered his acceptance that Stiggy talks to him?


	4. Chapter 4

**Recently**  
　  
Below the helicopter, on the warmer floor of the valley, the immense patterns went on and on. It was striking, the Racing Drivers racing in their natural environment. Their vehicles zipping around the corners were in continual, multicolored motion, swirling and never staying two colors in a row for more than a few moments. It reminded James of the computer game where the trail of balls rolled along a track and you had to shoot them with matching colors to clear the track. Andy had played it in his downtime a couple years back. Brightly colored vehicles against the pale background. The cliff dwellings were of the same pale stone as the floor, but the cliffs behind them were darker grey stone, granite, possibly.

How could this place exist and the world not know? The Racing Drivers, the little that was known about them, had all been learned from studying the generations bred from a handful that had been discovered, somewhere -the stories were all vague and conflicting- somewhere remote. Discovered and captured. It must have been from here. From their homes. This beautiful, wild, place; perfectly suited for Racing Drivers.

James looked and focused on the scene. Tried to remember every detail. Stig would want to see it, later. Since he couldn't see it, now, for himself, James would see, and remember.

When the Stig could talk to him again, when they could share memories again, he would have this to give to him. So the Stig would know what had been done.

  
**2015**

"I'm taking him with me. The show will have to get another Stig. He's not staying here by himself." James stood straight and crossed his arms. "And Richard sure as hell isn't going to just leave Stiggy behind."

"Damn right," Jeremy growled.

The lawyer wasn't really intimidated by a middle aged tv crew. He had close cropped, thick brown hair and a very expensive suit. He looked like one of those slick American television lawyers, the kind with gleaming teeth. "You'll take them nowhere. You have decided to cut your ties to the BBC, and the BBC has no reason to capitulate to your demands. You have no rights. The Racing Drivers belong, in every legal sense, to the BBC."

"We're the ones they're imprinted on! Racing Drivers can't imprint twice. They won't be able to communicate with anyone else."

"I understand they respond perfectly well to alternative stimuli. Imprinted handlers are unnecessary."

"Like being lured with keys, and dragged by the neck?!" Andy's voice was tight with rage.

"The BBC is prepared to make no concessions on this point. The Racing Drivers stay here. There is nothing more to discuss."

"They'll be alone. They can't see other people. They can only see us. Stiggy is alone when I'm not there," Richard said. His voice was soft, pleading. He was beyond angry; he was afraid.

Johnny, still the medic for the Racing Drivers, stepped forward. "Guys, we'll take good care of them. I'll make sure they both get to keep driving, keep working. They'll be happier than they would be in cages. At holding facilities. You guys don't have the resources to keep them. Even if your show does get off the ground, the BBC isn't going to let you have 'Stig' on your show. They own the rights to the name and the character."

"There will be no transfer of the likeness of the Stig trademark," the lawyer said, sneering slightly.

"They don't have to be suited up," Jeremy put in. "We could pass them off as regular testers. Maybe talented fans."

Johnny shook his head. "Stig looks exactly like Ben Collins, how are you going to explain that? Oh the guy we fired on our last show happens to be the 'talented fan' we hired on this show? That's never going to work. Come on, guys, it's in their best interests to stay here. Where they'll be taken care of. Please, don't make an issue of this. James, Richard, you know it's for the best."

"They belong with us, Johnny," James said.

"They belong to the BBC. End of story,"the lawyer snapped.

James was getting fed up with the lawyer's unprofessionalism and what he perceived as hateful behavior. He thought maybe hewas going to get involved in a fracas of his own pretty soon. Jeremy brushed against James - just enough for him to notice, but it may as well have been a restraining hand.

Andy stepped forward. He pushed the presenters back and lowered his voice, addressing Jeremy. "This is wrong. But we set it up this way. Jeremy, the only way to fight this is get lawyers involved. This guy isn't going to give up just because you're right. Lawyers are a bad idea, Jeremy, they're going to make things harder all the way around. And the Stigs are the ones who're going to suffer. We'll get them visiting privileges. We'll get it taken care of. Pissing this guy off isn't the way to go about this."

Eventually, the three of them gave in. Andy, bolstered by Johnny's medical recommendation to the company, had arranged to get James and Richard visiting privileges. They were incredibly limited, and would in no way include watching their Stigs drive, but it cut into the loneliness the Racing Drivers experienced when their partners suddenly disappeared.

Then one day, more than a year later, James showed up at Stig's room, and didn't feel anything different than the usual surface level anticipation and excitement that he used to cover the sadness and anxiety he felt after an absence. He opened the door, and Stig jerked around from his view at the window, hands raised, shoulders tense.

James couldn't feel anything but his own shock. Stig always knew he was coming. Stig stepped forward, helmet bobbing. He moved right up to James and peered at his face from several angles. He pointed at James and then at his own helmet. He held his hand out flat, palm upward, their long distance signal for a question.

"I can't hear you," James breathed. The Stig jerked back.

He put his hands to his helmet and pulled it off. His eyes were as wide and wild as James had ever seen them. Even more than the first time they'd locked eyes, while Stig was being bodily forced to his knees by four men, he hadn't looked this distressed. His golden hair was sweaty, his cheeks were splotchy, like he'd been holding his breath for a long time.

He stepped close again and made a complicated series of gestures. James immediately realized why the other handlers had such a hard time telling what the impromptu sign language meant. Without the attendant emotional context, there was too much ambiguity. Racing Drivers couldn't seem to learn standard British Sign Language; they had their own built in system of gestures, universal to every Racing Driver. The literal translation was something like "I think, <someone else> thinks, no, can't go, can't go, you, unmoving, I think, you think, no. <sign James wasn't familiar with>."

He couldn't tell who the <someone else> was, usually there would be an accompanying emotion or picture to work from. The sign <can't go> made by gesturing a sticky accelerator, could mean anything from the car broke down, to having to work hard to drive, to being afraid of something. He was suddenly feeling a little <sticky accelerator gesture> himself.

"Alright, we'll work this out. I'm going to call Hammond in, and he'll bring Stiggy in and we'll figure out what's going on." He tapped Richard's number on his contact list.

The Stig did the gesture James didn't recognize, again. He tucked his hands under his arms. This time he tilted his head, clearly looking for understanding from James. James put an arm around him and pulled him close, his heart beating faster when he felt the way the Stig was shuddering. Richard's voice came on the line, sounding upbeat.

"There's an emergency at Dunsfold. I need you down here right away. I can't communicate with Stig. You have to get down here right NOW and see if you and Stiggy can talk to him and see what's wrong..." He trailed off. Was there any reason to believe this mightn't have happened to both the Racing Drivers? From the other end of the phone he heard an engine revving to higher RPM's. "We've got to figure this out. How soon can you be here?"

"I'm on my way down right now. I was coming in to see Stiggy today. I'm about 10 minutes out."

"Alright. I'll see you when you get here. I'm going to call Johnny."

"See you soon."

Johnny's phone went to voicemail. James left a less panicked message than he felt was necessary, but opted for discernability over emotional content. Then he sat on the floor of the bare room and held the Racing Driver.

He stroked Stig's hair out of his face. Stig huddled under James' arm, pressed as closely to him as he could get, gloves holding fists full of his t-shirt. James combed his fingers through Stig's hair, trying to even out the basically permanent helmet flattening. The floor was gritty underneath his other hand and he wiped it on the top of one of the shoes that was sitting on the floor within reach. He started noticing the dust in the corners, and why wasn't that shoe neatly set in the closet beneath the clean jumpsuits? He noticed the jumpsuit Stig was wearing wasn't all that clean. It had a greasy smear on one leg and some sort of dried food on the sleeve. It wasn't the one he wore when racing, it was just a basic white racing suit. Still, it should have been put in the laundry already. He looked up at the window that faced the track. There were scratches on the glass at helmet height, and smeary finger marks, as though Stig had been pressing his face and hands against it. A little spark of rage ignited in him. He should be able to be here to take care of Stig and he wasn't allowed and look what was happening. He curled his face down over Stig and tightened his grip.

He heard the outer door open less than 10 minutes later, and heard footsteps running down the building. "Richard," he called out. "Hurry."

The footsteps went past the door, straight on to the next door. "I am, mate," Richard called as he flew by. He was back, a moment later, pushing through the door, followed by Stiggy. The second Racing Driver knelt beside the stricken one, and took his face in both hands. It examined the blue eyes, plexiglass visor expressing nothing. It looked up at Richard. It gestured a variant on what Stig had told James earlier, and he felt a pang, because it was clear Richard was getting the accompanying telepathic contact, while he, himself, still had no idea what the intention of the message was.

"He says Stig's sick. They lost contact last two nights ago. Stiggy's been trying to touch his mind, but there was no answer. Stiggy tried to tell the handlers that there was something wrong, he, ah, banged on Stig's door when they took him past to the track, but the handlers just thought he was challenging him." Stiggy gestured outward with both hands, as Racing Drivers often did when they felt their cars had failed them. Richard gasped and turned to James. "He blew his lap time. He thought that if he did poorly, they'd go get Stig, then they'd have to see something was wrong, but they didn't notice."

"But what's wrong with him?" James wailed.

"He's." Richard stared at Stiggy, who tucked his hands under his arms. "He's sick. Something like chilled, or like he's in a place that's too warm and he's too cold. I don't really know what that means. He needs to be… in a pinball machine… to feel better." Richard looked at James for help, but didn't find any there. "I've never seen that place, and I can't describe it. Stiggy says he's never been there, but some of the Racing Drivers know about it."  
　  
"Well, we have to get him there." James started pulling the Stig up by the arm.

"James," Richard stopped him, "We don't know how to get there, we don't know where it is, and if you'd seen the picture I got of it, it can't be a real place. It's probably a state of mind, or something. And we can't take the Stigs anywhere, unless we want to get arrested right now, and ruin the whole plan. There's got to be something Johnny can do for him. Let's just don't panic."

"He can't talk to me, Hammond. I can't even understand what he's signing. He's been alone for two bloody days, and I can't not try!"

"Stiggy can sign to him, James. Even if they can't make contact. He's not alone, he's got all of us here with him, now. We'll work it out."

Johnny showed up an hour later. James hadn't been able to tell him that he couldn't hear the Stig talking in his head, anymore, and there would be no apparent reason that he suddenly stopped understanding the signs, so he just explained that he kept gesturing that he was sick. No need to explain that James hadn't known the sign for sick before Richard had translated it.

It was a familiar enough sign to Johnny. He examined the particular way it was made and pursed his lips. "I've seen this before. We call it chills. They shiver and make that huddling gesture, but he's running a fever, which means he's on to the second stage." He stood up and put his hand on James' shoulder. James' head was down, shaking from side to side. "There's no medication for this. If we leave him, he could make it a month, 5 weeks. But he'll lose his hearing and his sight before then, hearing in probably a day, and his vision will drop off rapidly for 3 or 4 days after that. The kindest thing I can do it fix him up with a drip. He'll drift off to sleep, painlessly."

James's Face was straining. His hands were over his mouth, which was drawn open.

Richard stepped between them before James started screaming. "There's got to be something you can do. Surgery or something."

He grimaced when James did begin to move, silently set himself against the older man, bracing himself to keep James from reaching the medic.

James didn't go after Johnny, though. He dropped his head like he always used to when he was hiding his face behind his hair. He spoke with low, quiet incredulity. "How can you say it's kindness to euthanize him. He's alive. You're telling me that the better option is that he stop being alive? You walking out right now is better than you murdering him because you can't think of something else."

The medic stood, hands folded in front of him and watched James with a sad face. When James seemed to be winding up for a long tirade, he cut him off. "You're right, James." He spoke loudly and firmly. "I don't have to do anything. I can walk out right now, and the disease will take its course. In three days, at most, he won't be able to drive. Ever again. He'll spend a month in this room, or in a surgical suite, not that it would help, but where ever he is, he'll spend those days in silence, in darkness, in pain, and he won't be able to do the one thing that makes his life worthwhile. I've seen what happens to Racing Drivers when they can't drive, you know." He was almost yelling, now. "I've been to the holding facilities that are too small for tracks. Do you remember the bruises Stig came in with, just from not getting to race often enough? He got to drive every day. I've seen them come to racing teams with broken bones. They beat themselves to death against the bars of their cages, James. If they can't drive, they go into shock, and when there is no relief, they work themselves up until their injuries kill them or their hearts burst. That's how Racing Drivers die in the pens. If you can nurse him through that, and you won't be doing him any favors, eventually he'll waste away to the point where you'll wish you'd done it the easy way. Because he will sure wish you'd done it the easy way. Either way, he'll be gone. You can spare him the agony, though. Take him for one last drive, they've got a Lambo out there, and we'll set the drip up right in the car, and he can go to sleep, dreaming of a V12. Yes, I will use the word kindness, and I will use another word for anyone who would put him through the alternative. Selfish. Heartless."  
　  
James had deflated against the wall during this remonstration. "There's nothing, nothing else you can do to keep him alive? However remote? He's my friend, Johnny."

The medic deflated, too. "I'm so sorry, James."

James nodded a little. "You're going to have to talk to the BBC, though. If I tell them, they'll think I'm trying to get back at them."

"Yes, of course. I'll have to go get a drip, anyway. I'll be back in an hour. You, you should stay here and say your goodbyes."

James nodded, a hand on Richard's shoulder, leaning slightly on the younger man.

Johnny backed out of the room. Richard's voice raised. "What the hell are you thinking?" James squeezed his shoulder painfully. The outside door closed in the distance.

"It was no good arguing with him about it. We're leaving." He knelt beside the Stig and started gesturing slowly.

Richard waved in the general direction of the front gate. "How are we supposed to get them out of here?! The guard is pretty sure to notice when the ex-employees drive off with the Stigs."

James turned and looked up at him. "Richard. The whole point is that no one knows who they are. Help me get their suits off. We're getting the FUCK out of here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny- Good guy or Bad guy?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wonder where Ben Collins fits in, please read "Ben and The Stig"  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/8712949

**Recently**

The helicopter had reached an open space to one side of the immense valley. "Coming in for a landing. Hold on!" the pilot yelled.

Waves of dust raised by the downforce rippled out away from the helicopter as it settled to the ground. When the ground had touched up gently beneath the landing gear, Jeremy swung himself out, taking care to hide the twinge in his back and legs after the trip. Hammond jumped out beside him, and they dashed around to the other side of the helicopter. James was out and had an arm around Stig, helping him down. The Racing Driver couldn't see as far as the ground, and stumbled. James grimaced at this, and Jeremy looked over his shoulder, a worried look on his face. Richard opened the front door of the chopper and gestured to Stiggy, who hopped out of the front seat and gestured back at him, stepping towards the Stig. He hooked Stig's free arm over his shoulder and helped James lead him out from under the chopper blades.

Jeremy looked behind them. An armada of cargo helicopters was coming to ground in the empty space behind them. In the first, Iain May and Andy Wilman were hanging half out of the side door with a video camera. As each of the choppers landed, the film crew disembarked, unloading filming gear and satellite uplink equipment. Jeremy put on his game face and as the lead helicopter's turbines quieted to the point that he could be heard, he flicked on the microphone he wore. Andy counted down and pointed to him. "Welcome viewers. I'm Jeremy Clarkson. You may have expected me to be standing in a studio, or a large tent. Instead, we are broadcasting from a subarctic zone in the southern most continent of the world, Antarctica. Let me show you what you can expect over the course of the show."

Live on Amazon Prime, the Grand Tour website, and other websites all over the Internet, based all over the world, viewers' screens were inundated with years' worth of unofficial footage from the Top Gear racetrack, car companies all over the world, and just about every racing team. Twitter feeds were inundated by links to the videos, to the website. Facebook's newsfeeds were flooded with links and articles. YouTube videos, podcasts, Instagram, the big social networks and the smaller backwaters of the Internet came alive and focused on this single location.

The film began.  
　  
A young Jeremy Clarkson and a man who looked just like him in a blue jumpsuit, both waving at the camera. "Say hello, Blue!" Jeremy said. The other man produced a rumble like a racing engine.

"So we must turn the car over to our Tame Racing Driver. Some say..." Jeremy's voice from every episode of Top Gear rolled over a montage of photographs of various celebrities posed next to Stig. The Stig in the pictures changed part way through. From wearing a black suit, to a white suit, and then changing height and stance. "All we know is, he's called the Stig."

_"Racing Drivers." Jeremy's voice boomed._

Pictures rolled.

James and Jeremy sitting next to a helmeted Stig at a table outside the studio at Dunsfold.

Richard wearing a mischievous grin, a relaxed air about him, a cigarette in his hand, standing next to two visibly different Stigs.

Tanner and American Stig standing in front of a muscle car and gesturing wildly at it.

James leaning close and murmuring to Stig, gesturing placidly, with cars flashing by in the background.

Steve, Shane, and Australian Stig, beers in hand in front of a pub during one of their challenges.

Stig sitting on a plastic chair beside the diesel racing car on 24 hour race day, legs crossed in front of him while a member of the production crew stepped over him.

The banner at the Dunsfold studio.

_"What are they?"_

James May sat in a chair, with electrodes stuck to his head, looking at a man in a lab-coat, nodding occasionally. On the other side of the split screen shot, the Stig, helmet less, wearing scrub pants and a tank top, looking for all the world like Ben Collins, sat wired to another set of electrodes. The monitors showed the same pattern of lines.

When they had James hold a ball, do sums in aloud, or tell a story, the monitor on the Stig showed the same brainwaves. When the Stig was shown pictures of cars, James' monitor recorded the raise in excitement level. When someone pinched James, the Stig's scans registered the pain as well.

A caption along the bottom read: **In order for Racing Drivers to communicate, they must imprint on a human. The relationship with this human is then irreplaceable. Without it, Racing Drivers cannot communicate with their human handlers.**

Another similar video of Richard and Stiggy, recording a brain scan.

**The scans show mirrored brainwaves, despite the fact that handler and Racing Driver were in separate rooms.**

Again, but with Tanner Foust and American Stig

Again, Steve Pizzati and Australian Stig.

Ben and Stig standing side by side with identical crossed arm poses. Stig just a hair shorter, listening to Andy talk while James translated into gestures.

**Typically a Racing Driver is imprinted on by a handler who is a physical match for them. At Top Gear, this was not the case. The Stigs imprinted onto presenters, and a second handler served as the physical match.**

Two full body X-ray pictures, with red circles highlighting subtle differences between the one marked Racing Driver: Stig and the one marked Human: Ben Collins.

**Racing Drivers are a sentient species, distinctly different to humans, despite a similar outward appearance.**

Headlines from Ben's cover being blown.

_"Why are they here?"_

A video of a man was standing beside the tire wall at a racetrack. He was dressed in a jumpsuit with Ferrari F1 racing team scarlet. "What do you think of the Racing Drivers?" Jeremy's voice asked, companionably.

The man shrugged. "Every team's got one, you've got to have, to be competitive. It's not like they're men. They're like an extra computer." Jeremy's stance shifted, his bodycam now showed a Racing Driver in a matching Ferrari jumpsuit was being led behind him, towards the car.

Jeremy spoke again. "I was pretty skeptical when I found out. I mean, human lookalikes? Masquerading as people to race cars?"

The man shrugged again. "Oh, they've been part of the racing world since the beginning. No one questions it anymore. I found out my first year on the team, when they had me imprint on Shoe." He gestured over his shoulder. He lowered his voice. "I don't like seeing how they treat him. I wouldn't treat a dog that way. I'd better go watch, though. He likes it when I watch him drive." A sort of smile crossed the man's face.

The bodycam jiggled as Jeremy reached out and shook the man's hand. "Have a good race, Schumacher."

This time the caption was alone on a black screen: **Racing Drivers are used as substitutes for human drivers by every major racing team, and every major car manufacturer in the world.**

_"What kind of lives do they live?"_

A dusty barn full of Racing Drivers. Andy's voice on the bodycam picking out Australian Stig.

**Despite their obvious intelligence, Racing Drivers are sold as slaves or livestock.**

The Top Gear presenters walked through the warehouse full of Racing Drivers, their cries evident.

The handlers manhandled the Stig to the go-kart.

Four men wrestled him to the ground and forced his helmet off.

**This is how Racing Drivers are forced to imprint.**

He stood, covered in healing bruises, with his jumpsuit down around his waist, having visibly put on weight and muscle, grinning down at James.

He and James walked side by side to a McLaren, gesturing companionably. James tossed him the keys and Stig got in and started the car. Waited for James to signal him to go.

**Some partnerships are very successful.**

White dog runs this time with Andy standing, watching while Richard knelt in front of Stiggy, a scowl on his face. The jerk of the body cam when Andy stepped forward to restrain Richard when he started shoving the handlers away from Stiggy.  
　  
The body cam wobbled as its wearer walked through an underground parking garage with cages bolted to the walls. Racing Drivers slumped against the walls, very few of them standing upright, watching the men walking past. At one of the cages, the camera wearer stopped. A man in a sharkskin jacket gestured to a Racing Driver hunched in the corner of a cell. It was wearing a black jumpsuit and helmet. "There he is, Mr Gere, just like you asked for." The Racing Driver didn't look up.

**Sometimes, despite the best intentions, the story doesn't end happily.**

A warehouse, full of cages even smaller than dog runs. Pregnant polytone Racing Driver females. Small Racing Drivers, running circles the length of their tiny cells. Racing Drivers the size of 10 year olds on go-Kart tracks.

**Racing Drivers are born and bred in captivity. The young ones can expect 12-16 years being held in facilities like these before they are considered mature, and can be transferred to single occupancy cells to become breeders or be sold to car companies and racing teams. >**

Andy was moved past the go-kart track and onto a cell where American Stig had spent his entire adult life.

A red Racing Driver was lured out of one car into another by means of keys, while a handler kept him a half step back by means of a chest harness.

**Handlers perform a variety of jobs for the Racing Drivers, such as escorting them to driving assignments.**

A green Racing Driver gestured one handed at a car with a crushed front panel. The driver's side tire folded under. His face plate was cracked. His right arm hung flaccid. There was blood down the neck of his jumpsuit. His handler watched him gesture and took notes on a clipboard. He pointed impatiently to the car when the Racing Driver stopped gesturing occasionally to touch his helmet and make a little sputtering engine sound.

**Recording their reports about car performance.**

A NASCAR Racing Driver was pulled out of his car, body visibly broken and limp.

A man in the same suit sat behind a press conference table and announced that despite his miraculous recovery, he would be retiring from racing.

**Being the public face of the Racing Driver.**

Another Racing Driver pulled dead from a wreck.

Again, another match retiring after an amazing recovery.

 **Covering up the fact that Racing Drivers have no legal rights or status.**  
　  
A grey Porsche wrapped around a tree. A red, wet faced Jeremy Clarkson being restrained by a firefighter. A Racing Driver, wearing a bloodstained denim jacket and jeans, unhelmeted brown curls blowing in the breeze, being pulled out of the cut open car. A face remarkably like Jeremy's staring blankly at the pale sky.

This faded into a shot of Jeremy and Blue, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing.

**In Memory of Blue.**

_"Tame Racing Drivers. It's time to tell the whole story."_

The screen went black.

Jeremy appeared again, live from Antarctica. Behind him the wildly colored Racing Drivers, their enormous race circuits, and the fabulously carved city spread out. The camera zoomed in on his face. "Welcome to the Grand Tour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the Grand Tour has aired, I have noticed a number of similarities between our version of the show and this version.
> 
> Have you seen anything that particularly lines up?


	6. Chapter 6

**Meanwhile**  
　  
James and Stiggy led Stig out of the landing zone, Richard hovering around them. They reached the edge as a dozen of the vehicles screeched to a halt in front of them. They looked like single passenger cars, like F1 cars, but smaller, and rougher, much more organic. The Racing Drivers leapt out. Their jumpsuits and helmets had a different design to them than the ones provided by the industrial world. Stiggy handed his side of the Stig over to Richard and stepped forward. He planted himself between the humans and the approaching Racing Drivers. One of the natives, a male, light blue, gestured a challenge at Stiggy and roared. James and Richard flinched back. It was as loud as an actual race car would have been. They'd heard Stiggy and The Stig challenge each other, when they'd first brought Stiggy to the track. Their roars had been like tunnel blasting in a Lamborghini. They'd gone chest to chest, arms flung to the sides, pushing at each other, snarling and revving.

Richard and James exchanged glances. If that started here, they were outnumbered. Racing Drivers in holding facilities weren't allowed to challenge each other, they got competitive enough to hurt themselves. Neither able to back down. Stiggy and The Stig had to be separated by each being given car keys and settling it on the track. Then, once they'd established their relative lap times, they'd settled down into friendly competitor mode.

Stiggy roared. It was the thunder of a high octane supercar. The light blue cowered back. Stiggy turned his visor to a small dark green racing Driver, patted his chest and pointed back to the ones behind him, encompassing the whole impromptu landing field. He patted his own chest again. He growled, softly, like an engine idling.

The green nodded. Tucked his hands under his arms and jutted his chin at the Stig.

Stiggy nodded.

The green nodded.

Richard spoke to James quietly. "Stiggy says we're under his protection. Their leader asked if Stig was sick. And told him they know how to fix it. This red and grey and white one will help." A tall female polytone stepped forward and pushed Richard away from Stig. She leaned close and gestured to Stig.

James gasped. "Hammond, I can hear her. You stay here and translate for the crew. Stig and I will be ok." Richard hesitated, then felt a wave of assurance from the polytone. He nodded and returned with Stiggy to explain to the natives what they had invaded their space for.

The polytone led James and Stig to a room in one of the nearby buildings. There was nothing in it other than a stone block, which she guided the Stig to sit on. She carefully removed his helmet. James shivered. His eyes were crusted around the edges, staring blankly. She helped him out of the boots, the jumpsuit, the tank top, his boxer briefs, and had him lay on his side on the table. James patted his shoulder. He was normally radiating heat, but since this illness had struck, his flesh had felt ice cold.

The female stood and took off her helmet. Her hair was brown, streaked with grey, coiled and pinned up tight to her head. She had to have been even older than Jeremy. She turned a crank on the wall, and a lightbulb on the ceiling glowed to life. James stared at it. The bulb was about as long as his hand and only slightly thicker than his thumb. It was attached to the ceiling with wire, and unprotected wires led right to the crank, which was set into a manual generator set neatly into the wall.

He stared at it for awhile. The mystery of electricity here would have to wait, though. The female was leaning close and examining Stig minutely. She reached his left hand and frowned. She gestured James over and pointed to a discoloration under his thumbnail. There were subtle streaks running up his arm he saw, that he hadn't noticed during the checkup Johnny had done at Dunsfold, before they'd kidnapped the Stigs.

There was a poison in his system, James heard from the polytone. There was a readily available antidote. She turned towards the door, then turned back to him. He couldn't heard the message she'd sent, but she told him she'd sent her trainee to go get the antidote. Then James felt a wave of curiosity about an impressive white suited Racing Driver who had the strength to stare down the leader. He realized with a blush that she was not so discreetly pumping him for information about Stiggy.

"Umm," he said. "He's fine, I suppose." He pictured Stig's driving on the track at Dunsfold. He couldn't keep the memory of Stiggy and Stig challenging each other that first day, out of his mind. Following hard on its heels was the time the Stig challenged him. She seemed surprised, but didn't clarify why.

A black and green bitone the size of a young teenager came in and handed a glass bottle to the polytone. It looked at James, then stepped back to the edge of the room, arms folded in a very familiar pose, and watched.

The female tilted the bottle to the Stig's lips. He drank it and made a lugging transmission sound. He relaxed back on the bed and sighed for a long time.

It reminded James of a death rattle and with a start he remembered Johnny's proclamation that the best thing to do would be to euthanize him. Did she just put him out of his misery?!

The female and the youth both jumped. The female sent him disgusted and horrified messages, and shock that such a simple problem would be dealt with so harshly. James felt himself immobilized by his own mind, and felt her go sorting through his memories. He could feel the cold rage as she looked at what he'd seen, what he knew, what could be following on his heels. He struggled. Battered with all his strength like a man fighting hurricane force winds. She held him down gently and forced his mind where she wanted it to go. She was only looking, but he could tell how easy it would be for her to start changing things. She heard this and responded with a telepathic snort, as though she would be entirely justified if she did. His muscles weren't under his control anymore, or he would have screamed.

Then his control was back, and her mind was being pushed away from him.

It was alright, he was safe. She wouldn't have changed anything, and now she was done taking without asking. It was rude and she wouldn't be permitted to do it again.

He looked down. The Stig's hand was gripping her arm tightly, the fingertips indenting the skin. Stig's eyes were locked on hers and he sat up, forcing her back as he did so. The young bitone ran from the room.

The Stig wasn't going to let anyone be hurt. James felt the assurance sent to himself and the polytone. Not anyone. Not the Racing Drivers. Not the film crew. He saw, for the first time, this operation from the Stig's point of view. What it meant to him. What it meant to every Tame Racing Driver across the world. What it would mean to every free Racing Driver.

Stig let her arm go. She pulled away, absentmindedly picked up her helmet and backed out of the room. Stig sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. James was overwhelmed with his gratitude.

He sent back how afraid he'd been. What Stig's illness had moved him to do. Stig nodded, sat head down for a moment. He was a far cry from the pale, skinny young man who had come from the holding facility. He wasn't quite as toned as he had been when he'd been Top Gear's only Racing Driver, but he was still stacked with muscles, healthy in the glowing kind of way exemplified by models in magazine ads. He stood and pulled the pile of his clothes to him. He got himself dressed, and smiled at James before pulling his helmet on.

Outside there was a noise. A commotion down at the landing pad. The Stig bolted down the gentle slope, with James huffing behind him. The delegation of Racing Drivers who'd confronted James and Richard earlier had been joined by an immense crowd of their people, the crowd dotted here and there with vehicles. They were face to face with the film crew. Stiggy was in front of them, gesturing, Richard providing rapid fire translation behind him. The dark green leader was gesturing back, voice raised in agitation.

Stig stepped up beside Stiggy. The bitone youth pointed at him and sputtered loudly. The light blue from earlier and the leader took up sputtering.

The leader stepped forward, threw his arms out and roared. The crowd roared their support.

Stiggy and Stig exchanged glances. They stood straight, crossed their arms and looked over the heads of the crowd. The roaring died away. James goggled.

The dark green took another step forward and roared again. This time the supporting roars behind him were sparse.

Stiggy looked at Stig and gestured with a flat raised palm, and a tilt of his helmet.

"How are you?" Richard translated, breathlessly.

Stig nodded, gave a thumbs up, and did the gesture back. Stiggy nodded.

Richard cast a frantic plea at James.

"Fine, thanks. How are you?" James spoke for the Stig. A proud smile crossed his face. Lovely, clever boy, you couldn't say he was a slow driver, and you certainly couldn't say he was a slow learner.

The Tame Racing Drivers made small talk for awhile, Richard and James translating in shocked voices.

The Stig turned back to the crowd. His gestured grew more comprehensive. "We're here to help you. Not to bring harm to you." James raised his voice. Jeremy handed him his clip-on-microphone. "Our people have harmed your people in the past. We are here to stop that."

"Some of you were taken, generations ago." Richard raised his voice as Stiggy began to gesture to the native Racing Drivers. "We are descended from those ones. We have come back to show the humans that we, too are living beings. Who shouldn't be kept from doing what we chose and going where we chose. Who have the right to be acknowledged at living beings. Who should never have to fear being dragged away from our families, into the unknown. Who should never have to fear that we will be imprisoned, cut off from communication, or killed for being desperate. Humanity will speak out to stop it, if they know. We will show them what we could be, if we could be like you."

Stig looked back at James. Then started again. "We will not let you hurt our people, either. You will not seek to harm them. They have protected us, and we will do the same for them. You will help us, or we will protect the Tame Racing Drivers without your help."

The leader crossed his arms in front of him and nodded once. Behind him, in an outward expanding ring, the wild Racing Drivers did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Racing Drivers aren't totally car-focused it seems. Can Tame Racing Drivers learn things other than driving?


	7. Chapter 7

**Afterwards**

The crew filmed the rest of the show, after the dramatic confrontation, in a buzz. The show explained how the Racing Drivers' civilization had been found at the turn of the last century. How the ones who'd been captured had been brought back and bred and trained and the Racing Driver secret had been guarded by generations of car manufacturers and racing teams until a young Jeremy Clarkson on a car review show called Top Gear had begun an underground movement to expose the secret. The show outlined the setbacks they'd experienced when his Racing Driver, Blue had died, when Jeremy left Top Gear and the show was ultimately cancelled. How he'd kept searching for answers to where the Racing Drivers had come from, who knew and who objected, with all the forces of his journalistic ability. How he had been the driving force between the relaunch of Top Gear. Had thumbed his nose at the car industry with the existence of Stig, the Tame Racing Driver. The loss of the first two Stigs and the end of Top Gear's iconic presenters. The work done by people behind the scenes chasing down leads and finally figuring out where the Racing Drivers civilisation still existed. How they'd finally been able to come, to flood the Internet with the information so it could never be lost. So the Racing Drivers would be freed and could never be subjected to slavery again. To prove that they were sentient. To prove they were telepathic. To protect them.

Richard stepped away from the camera after the final bombshell, and noticed Stiggy off to the side of one of the satellite uplink stations, standing very close to the female polychrome that had treated the Stig. Her gloved hand was on his bicep and she was gazing up at him, attentive in every way. He grinned manically. That was too weird.

The dark green leader of the native Racing Drivers was gesturing to Jeremy, over one of the vehicles the natives drove. Richard had been informed that the vehicles were hand built from local materials.

They weren't as powerful or as easy handling as the cars in the outside world, and they didn't apparently, serve any purpose other than racing. They didn't even have passenger seats. Though some had a kind of wider seat used for training the young ones. Jeremy was getting a crash course in driving them from the little green. He'd decided since Jeremy was clearly the leader of the humans, he would deign to communicate with him.

Andy was standing outside the production tent; he nodded to Richard, pride blooming on every feature.

The tech crew was inside, monitoring the online viewership and directing the support teams all over the world battling the attempts to knock the feed down. "Good day's work, Hammond," Andy said.

"Thanks, Andy." He smiled wanly. His feet hurt. His hands were tired from more translating than he'd done, ever. "How'd it go? Did it get out?"

A grin crossed Andy's whole face. "It got everywhere. We went viral on 150 separate websites. There has been major outcry everywhere. A lot of disbelief, too, skeptics. Look at this, though." He pulled Richard to a monitor. "These links." He pointed to a list of websites. It was being constantly updated, new sites added and old ones disappearing as the hacker teams fought to save upload sites. "These links aren't ours. When the Grand Tour came online, within minutes, we had 4 major contributors that aren't on any of our teams. We haven't been the only ones compiling evidence. These two have videos, pictures, and audio files of Racing Drivers from different racing teams over the years. This one's pictures go back all the way to 1920, just after Racing Drivers were discovered. These other two are just text files, but these will be by far the most damning. These are financial records, this is the paper trail. They're not complete, and there is actually a lot less data here than from either of the other contributors, but this, this is legal gold."

He tapped another link, a series of folders. "The reseeders have been adding this information to ours, so it isn't in danger of getting lost, but we’ve been downloading copies. We can't be sure if it's authentic, yet. This is the thing I think you'll find most interesting, though." He leaned back and Richard clicked to a random file.

'Patient presents with severe lacerations of right bicep, forearm, and the right side of the torso. Handler indicates they were sustained when the patient's car was sideswiped by another Racing Driver. Injuries are consistent. I cleaned and stitched the wounds, applied bandage and advised a week's rest.' There was a notation dated two days later that the handler had sent the Racing Driver back onto the track the next day. Richard's eyes narrowed when he read the entry.

"These are doctor's notes. Some bloke who treats Racing Drivers."

Andy nodded. "Look in the folder labeled DDA."

Inside were 3 folders- PTS1, PTS2, XPBlk. Andy pointed at PTS2. Richard opened it; there were dated text files, but there were also a large number of pictures, videos and files in a format Richard was unfamiliar with. Andy pointed at a video.

Stiggy's unhelmeted face appeared. The camera zoomed out to a full body shot. Richard leaned into frame and grinned at the camera. Johnny stepped around the side of the camera and into frame. He talked his way through Stiggy's first annual physical, explaining his actions for the camera.

"It's physical evidence. Of the neglect, of the unsuitable conditions some of them are under, and the fact that they are very different from human beings. There are videos of surgeries, there are videos of autopsies, and there are extensive notes taken of every Racing Driver he's ever treated. There are some notes about consultations with other medics, most of them not as conscientious."

"These are Johnny's notes. I remember he said he was taking videos for training purposes. All his patients are on here? Who else did he treat?" Richard clicked back to the first folder. They all had 3 or 4 letter abbreviations. Nothing clearly labeled Rubens Barrichello, or anything like that.

"This one is Renault. This one is Redbull. This one is Sauber. This one is Top Gear. This one is Kawasaki - if you don't know that one off the top of your head, that's Ricky Carmichael's Motocross team. These are F2 and F3 teams, these are Rally Teams, these are NASCAR teams. Look at this one." He pointed to XPSJ. "It's Ayrton Senna."  
　  
"Well, why wouldn't he have a Racing Driver? Almost all of them did."  
　  
"Click on the last set of notes."  
　  
The patient name was Jato, and the notes described the symptoms of what Johnny had told James was called chills. The notes detailed the progression of the condition from the first day to the final day, more than a month later, when, despite the match's insistence on maintaining life support, the Racing Driver succumbed to his illness.  
　  
"Alright. That's sad. It's the same thing The Stig had. We couldn't have even done this in time, Jeremy didn't even start talking to Blue until '90. We know old Top Gear didn't have the influence to get here. Let alone force the secret open to the world. Senna died in '94, way too early to have gotten to… Jato?"  
　  
"Jato means Jet. But this is dated in '92." Andy crossed his arms over his chest.  
　  
Richard looked up from the screen for the first time since he'd sat down. The timeline settled onto his awareness. "It couldn't have been the Racing Driver who died in the crash at Imola." His eyes flicked to the screen. "Senna was driving alone for the last year and a half of his career." He frowned a little. "He must have been a great driver to have been able to keep up," he murmured. He shook himself. "I never knew Johnny worked with Senna. It'll be great to tell him about how easily they can treat Racing Drivers, here."  
　  
He felt like he wanted to go outside and see Stiggy. He looked towards the door of the tent, knowing the Racing Driver was waiting for him.  
　  
He stood. "I can't believe all of this, how well this worked." He turned back, door flap pulled half open. "This is amazing, Andy, everything you and Jeremy have done."  
　  
"Mr Wilman," a tech guy called. "We're starting to get the reports from the strike teams. They pulled 6 Racing Drivers out of the Force India compound."  
　  
"The holding facilities in the midlands have been taken..."  
　  
"Resistance at Williams..."  
　  
Richard let the flap fall closed behind him, and started across the space towards where Stiggy was waving between two of the native Racing Cars. Beyond him, James and The Stig were sitting in idling Racing Cars, watching him. Jeremy's laughter floated up from where he was doing donuts in a dark green Racing Car. The camp the crew had set up among the resting helicopters was busy with humans and Free Racing Drivers. The track, seen from above, had taken on a new form, leaving room around the space taken up by the landing party. Across the world strike teams were breaching holding facilities and race compounds, taking Racing Drivers and sympathetic matches into protective custody, out of the vindictive reach of the companies. Spread by the internet, television and radio, the new understanding rippled outward, and humanity made room for it in their collective consciousness.  
　  
The world we know is about to change.  
　  
And now, we must hand it over to our Free Racing Drivers.

Some say they will teach us higher understanding, and that they will never again be condemned as lesser beings.

All we know is, they're called the Stigs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, what did you think?
> 
>  
> 
> I would like to thank my betas, Mike and Marginaliana. Marginaliana was a supreme help in keeping the story line clear of confusion and keeping the TG3(I gues they're the GT3 now, huh?) in character as much as possible, and also donated some of the lines that really touch home with who they are.
> 
> I would also like to dedicate this story to J and P, who were there for every step of this process, but who I said goodbye to for the last time just a couple days before this was finished.
> 
> If you like this story, please, please read the counterpart, Choose. Set in the same AU. It tells the rest of this story. The two are meant to be a set, so please don't miss out on the second part. Thank you for reading.
> 
> Please, comment if you felt anything good or bad about this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Real People don't belong to me.
> 
> This story is fiction and is no reflection on anyone in it. The story does belong to me, as does the AU in which it is set.
> 
> Please comment, I like comments.


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